The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the distant drip of the kitchen sink. I was eighteen, home from college for the weekend, and my older brother Mark had just turned twenty-one. He’d always been the quiet one, the one who watched me too long when I walked around in shorts and a tank top. That night, after our parents left for their trip, he cornered me in the hallway.
“Strip,” he said, voice low and flat. No smile. No warning.
I laughed at first, thinking it was some sick joke. Then his hand clamped around my wrist and he shoved me into my old bedroom. The door slammed. He locked it. My heart slammed against my ribs as he yanked my shorts down in one hard pull. I tried to twist away, but he was bigger, stronger, and he’d clearly been waiting for this.
“Mark, stop—fuck, what are you doing?” My voice cracked. He didn’t answer. He just spun me around, bent me over the edge of my bed, and kicked my legs apart. The sound of his belt unbuckling was loud in the dark room.
His cock was already hard when he pressed it between my ass cheeks. No lube. No prep. Just raw pressure and the sudden, tearing burn as he forced the head inside my tight hole. I screamed into the mattress. He didn’t slow down. He drove deeper with every thrust, grunting, one hand fisted in my hair, the other pinning my wrists behind my back.
“Been wanting this ass since you turned eighteen,” he growled against my ear. “Tight little hole was made for me.” Each word came with another brutal shove. My body fought him, clenching, but that only made it worse. The stretch was vicious. Pain flared white-hot, then settled into a deep, aching throb as he bottomed out.
I begged. I cried. I told him he was my brother, that this was wrong, that I didn’t want it. He just laughed once, low and mean, and started fucking me harder. The wet, obscene sound of his cock pounding my ass filled the room. Every stroke dragged over that sensitive ring, stretching it wider. He spat on my hole once, just enough to ease the friction a little, then slammed back in.
My legs shook. Tears streaked my face. But somewhere in the middle of the pain, my body started betraying me. My cock twitched against the bedspread, leaking. Mark noticed. He reached under me, grabbed it, and stroked in time with his thrusts.
“Look at that,” he rasped. “Your ass is squeezing me like it wants more. Dirty fucking slut for your own brother.”
He pulled out, flipped me onto my back, and shoved my knees to my chest. The new angle let him go even deeper. I could see his face now—eyes dark, jaw tight, completely lost in it. He spat on my hole again and drove back in. The slap of skin on skin was loud and filthy.
My hole burned, stretched raw around his thick cock, but my own dick was rock hard and dripping.
Mark fucked me like he hated me and needed me at the same time. Long, punishing strokes that made my whole body jolt. Every time he bottomed out I felt it in my gut. He leaned down and bit my neck hard enough to leave marks while he rutted into me.
“Gonna fill this ass,” he muttered. “Gonna pump it full so you feel it for days.”
I came first, untouched except for the way his cock hammered that spot inside me. It ripped out of me in thick ropes across my stomach while I shook and sobbed. Mark groaned at the sight, fucked me through it, then buried himself to the hilt and came. I felt every pulse—hot, thick, flooding my wrecked hole. He stayed inside me until he softened, then pulled out slow so I could feel the mess leak out.
He didn’t apologize. He just wiped his cock on my thigh, pulled his pants up, and left me there, shaking, hole gaping and dripping.
I lay there for a long time, cum and spit cooling on my skin, ass throbbing with every heartbeat. When I finally stood, my legs barely worked. In the mirror I saw the fingerprint bruises on my hips, the bite mark on my neck, the way my hole still twitched and leaked.
Mark came back later that night. He didn’t ask. He just bent me over the kitchen table and took me again, slower this time but just as deep. I didn’t fight as hard. My body was already sore, already open. By the third time—against the shower wall, water running cold—he had me pushing back onto his cock, moaning his name like I wanted it.
We never talked about it. We just kept doing it. Every visit home turned into the same thing: him taking what he wanted, me taking it, both of us coming hard and filthy. My ass stayed sore for days after every trip, a constant reminder of how my brother used me.
And I never told anyone. Some secrets taste too good to share.
